


What Lies Within

by Emriel



Series: Taken [25]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Butterfly Effect, Dimension Travel, Emotional Manipulation, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Satire, Sphere of Ancient Knowledge, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 12:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emriel/pseuds/Emriel
Summary: Following the tragedy of Beloved Memory, Harry finds himself in a world not his own, while the Dark Lord in his grief, begins a hunt for his missing soul. Is it perhaps love or obsession?For the boy who once loved a monster, can time heal his wounds and will his past ever let him go? What follows is a chase that runs the course of the ages...Abandoned.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: Taken [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/965817
Comments: 11
Kudos: 79





	What Lies Within

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this will serve the first story justice but I hope you enjoy reading it. As always, I don't have a beta and I might one day come back to polish this some more.

The shadows and ghosts would not talk to him and it was very cold.

Before long, Harry felt a hand guide him, push him to a compartment.

And he stayed there, body too tired to move. A passenger sitting on a train where no man can sit on.

The dark was endless.

There was no light.

Just the sound of the train, the rustling wind.

.

.

.

* * *

A great many faces, a great many sights overcame him, and yet he could not recall it if he tried.

Harry woke and when he woke, there was no sun.

He started running, as if nothing else could make sense, first the train, and then, the grass beneath his feet.

Trees, too tall, that he could not see from underneath it, save for the speckle of.

Stars.

And then the outline of the night sky, and an eerie silence.

Harry inspected himself, clutching at his satchel, he pulled out a cloak for the cold.

Blindly until his eyes adjusted to the dark blue hue, of midnight.

Then came the sound of a shower, and overhead millions of droplets fell. Birds twittered and the flapping of their wings against wind was heard as they flew for shelter.

It was raining, and Harry wanted to cast a charm that would keep him dry. He searched for his wand, and looked at it, broken at his feet.

The earth released its warmth and the smell was of fresh soil. That turned into mud soon enough,

A sudden thud to his right and the cawing of birds prompted him to move.

**_Harry._ **

It was a familiar voice, and a voice that always forced him to submit.

It was. As if he was being hunted.

Then he was running away, unsure if the ritual worked, unsure if he would be chased after all that he sacrificed and put back into a prison, punished until his mind would quake, or be strangled until he could not breathe or finally killed. So he ran, against the cold wind that hit his face. Against the rustling of leaves that did nothing but make him more aware of the sound of his footsteps.

He wished he was lighter on his feet, again and again, the stomping of his boots against the slush of brown and the heavy downpour of water. He swallowed his fear and tasted the droplets on his face, thirst, and Adrenalin. A feeling he was being reacquainted with, and he wished he learned to fly because his wand lay broken inside a satchel that saw fit to survive the mad storm that took over.

And Harry wondered if he was safe, because one moment, he was inside the summoning circle, and he could not even dare say a thing, and here he was, in a world not his own. With all his power, he chanted to hold on to a spell that would render his presence invisible, despite using the cloak that could cheat death.

But at the very least.

He was.

Alone.

* * *

Green eyes turned cold at the shuffling of the grass and shrubs. He sat with his back against the tree, trying to leaf through a book he kept on his person, trying to cast a spell with a broken wand, and mending it with a ribbon much like how spellotape would have done it.

And it worked, but barely. It took him twelve times to get it right, to cast a warming spell on his person so he could feel warm against the frigid mountain air. The air was thin, up there, and he wished he could light a campfire but it would have attracted attention. And now, an intruder.

…with fuzzy ears seemed to have joined him.

“Oh,” Harry blinked and started laughing, calming his panicked heart.

The furry animal, it would seem a squirrel appeared to want to investigate, pausing like a statue when he moved, but perhaps knowing that he was not going to hurt it, just went about its way.

Then Harry looked up at the heavens, and put a hand against his forehead.

He had no way of knowing if he would find his own folk from where he landed, but he should at least try to live, for this is the freedom the ritual afforded him. His body and mind was still intact, and he had with him the things he thought he should bring.

A blanket, even a tent but propping it up would take a lot of time. He would rather not stick out like a sore thumb in the open, when he knew that one wrong mistake would mean that he would be found.

He tried casting a “tempus” many times, but there was simply no way to tell the time, and he had to rely on the stars.

He wished he took astrology more seriously back then.

* * *

In the moonlight, it was not just the pupils that were red.

It hurt a lot, to cry after you’ve lost something that you so craved and treasured.

Harry figured Tom Marvolo Riddle was crying because that was truly all he was to the monster.

“It’s not a lie,” said the same poisonous voice, and it whispered in the wind.

Tom knelt down and breathed, as if in anger and in pain, calling out to no one, “If it is not love, then what is it? Why did you bother running away from me, when all I wanted to do was give you what you wanted? You craved for a family, and I became your family. Your friends, your own kin, the wizarding world was conspiring against you because of some prophecy and instead of damning you, I saved you. I gave you what you needed. I kept you safe and I taught you more than I have ever taught any one. I shared with you my dreams, and shared with you myself. Why… why did you still leave me? What did I do that was not enough?”

Harry watched this from afar, from another side of an invisible wall and smiled at the figment of his imagination.

Wondering if this was a dream or if this was reality. If waking up in the forest was something he dreamt up and he was back in a nightmare of a life.

So Harry came closer, and observed as Tom wept.

He knew very well how magic worked, and so he tried his best, not to respond to the call, choosing to ignore it, and choosing to instead hold on to why he had to leave in the first place. He was already dead inside, and he couldn’t just stay when there was nothing left of him to give.

So he left.

And even if a part of him wanted to say that he _did love_ the man, that phase was done and he’d given Tom more than enough chances to prove to himself that he would be _cherished_ the right way.

Harry raised a finger.

And touched the wall.

And a resounding echo pervaded around him.

And red eyes that were filled with tears, looked up sharply and saw through him.

“Ha—”

* * *

Harry woke up, eyes wide and panicked. He looked beside him and saw a bird hopping. Brown feathers, fluffy, beady eyes just looking at him before fluttering away.

“Ah… I have to… get going.”

And Harry wasn’t sure why, but the dream was a premonition. That he was sure of. You did not get dreams like that and if anything it should have meaning. The ritual promised him safety, but the safety was not something that was probably assured…

Because he could feel it in the air and the howling of the wind from the south. Somewhere. What is South anyway, for right now he was directionally challenged.

He wasn’t sure if he was moving the right direction, but he tried putting markers every few paces, to ensure he had not come back to where he came from.

Still, he wished to explore. The ritual promised him safety, so he was willing to test it.

What was safety anyway? Harry asked himself…

When Harry tried to stand up, he faltered and collapsed on the floor.

“Damn it.”

His leg was numb from being stuck under him. He should have laid his body on the floor instead of sitting all throughout the night.

Concentrating, he put his hand on where it hurt, and willed his body to move.

He was capable of that much.

The sun was up, and the sky was a clear blue. Clouds dotted the horizon, and the air was pure.

Harry thought that he should at least try to test his apparition skills.

Smelling pure air was something he’d never experienced in the past. There was always _something_ … heavy. The last time it felt pure was when he was a child.

One thing he learned from being with Tom was that one could apparate from one place as far as the eye could see. It would tire him, but it was good practice.

He gathered what measly possessions he had and tried it.

* * *

In this manner, he found himself at the foot of the mountain, crossing a river, a ravine, and eventually he happened upon a small town.

With one look at the clothing of people, Harry realized that the world and time that he traveled in was not of his own. That he was perhaps not just hundreds but thousands of years from where he came from.

The question was, could he survive here?

With one look at the primitive weaponry, made of copper and not of iron… perhaps that was why Tempus was not working, the boy thought to himself.

He could die if he wasn’t careful, not that it was likely they could best him in combat and he had magic at his side.

“Legilimency.”

Harry went through the thoughts of a faraway woman, who was planting crops by the wayside.

He had children with her each armed with a weapon.

Woven basket on one arm filled with seed and plants, one looking like a potato, and a stink that would overturn a person of his time.

And he went in, and with her dialect, he said, “I am a traveler. I need a place to sleep in.”

With a bit of persuasion, she shared that she did not truly know what even that meant. To her, “Sleep comes. Sleep is rest. No need place for sleep…”

And further gestures of a roof, and a soft bed gave Harry the impression that they have not even discovered what is comfort.

But at the mention of something soft, he pointed at her clothes and she laughed.

He then discovered that they had a village, teaming with people who had responsibilities, that it was a sanctuary where only the fit could live in, like a house was associated with safety, the sanctuary was for her people who she worked for and with.

She birthed children with strong men, she handled crops. Others hunted. Others traded.

And they kept themselves strong, so they would not be attacked.

They liked travelers for they share knowledge, that was a given, but some travelers have questioned their values. And their values they loved, so they killed the travelers, skinning them and sometimes eating them.

But he was a friendly sort, and so he got to stay.

In someone’s words, it would have been a terribly barbaric way of living, but then when Harry compared it to where he came from, this simplified view of living was very similar…

* * *

Having convinced the lady, Harry thought about what Albus Dumbledore said, “That one must not mess with time in fear of what change it might bring...” And yet here he was, in another time, trying to find a safe place to hide for after travelling the woods all by himself, he could not for the life of him figure out how others could survive when they see no one but themselves.

He had no company except his books, the stars, the trees, the birds. And during the many hours where he was forced to confront his own thoughts, he started thinking out loud and wondered if he was the only person alive and if where he came from… was even real.

Tom once gave him the company of dementors, and despite having faced those in the past, and having all happiness sucked out of him, the complete isolation and the thought of being truly alone haunted him.

Seeing other people, despite their older way of life, was a relief.

* * *

The dreams came and went, and Tom Riddle stopped crying in them, merely just recalling the times they were together.

And Harry wondered what it feels like for Tom, wondering because in that world, he was gone, and that he could never come back to it, even if now he missed him.

Having someone always wanting to be with him, even if it was horribly possessive…

The Dark Lord always tried to make him feel special, and was grand with all his gifts. During the times when Harry would wake from many nightmares, that it was almost uncountable, he was within a call’s reach.

But he forbade his contact with others, and it hurt…

It was annoying to recall the man, his past. How does one get over an old flame?

And Harry laughed at the sudden old voice that entered his mind, imagining Dumbledore again, giving sage advice, “When one can choose between the matters of the heart and mind, and choose clearly, then you have mastered the art of thinking.”

Harry frowned, and gnashed the stick against the tablet of clay that he was writing on.

“Yes, I should just forget him.”

And he stabbed too hard, the clay mound broke.

The man behind him shook his head and gave him more water to reshape his tablet.

* * *

From staying in the village, he learned that there were others with more knowledge, and from them he learned how to write in their language, a mere caricature of people and simple syllables that represented objects, things and concepts.

“Stay, eat, drink, plant, fish, dye…”

He learned how they took pigments of many things, from the sap of plants, from the grinding the rocks, from the bones of animals, from blood.

And it was then that Harry realized that these ancient people practiced magic they did not know of.

It was accompanied with gestures, and some things were still similar to how it was in the past. Males he avoided for they looked at him, always wondering if he was girl because most guys were well built, as if a show of strength would always woo the women. And yet when contested for his right to be a male because of his slender figure, he always beat them to a pulp.

And the shamans, that was what he would call them in his head, they could use magic.

To heal, and to commune with the spirits. And Harry wrote them down.

“Appease the dead. They hurt. Like living hurt.”

Harry blinked, and tried to follow the practice and became more aware of the lay of the land.

He could recall the first time he was brought to their tent, elder people, with many marks on their faces. With their eyes closed, they sensed him.

And the shamans said, “You are good, but you are cursed. Leave us before you bring ruin.”

Because he was a traveler, and everyone knew he was merely there to study and learn from them, they let him stay. But others were wary, just because he was different. And visibly so.

But there was much to learn, and much discipline for he could not use his magic to heat the water, he had to learn how to cast a warming charm, to bathe in ice cold water.

To be more aware of his surroundings because bathing in a pond where one did not know if an animal would suddenly assume he was food was something that was consciously at the back of mind.

Of course he could cast a scourgify but it was draining to even cast the smallest of spells.

He learned that some barks were actually useful in channeling magic and he made a familiar in the form of a tiny robin, whose arm stopped working and who healed while he learned how to draw sticks, and paint in the color of animal blood.

And learning was something he once had little interest to do, especially when Tom forced it upon him, because he was a Consort and consorts had to be knowledgeable.

It was funny that the areas of diplomacy that he once learned could still be applied in the past.

But he still wanted to stay Fuck the Bastard, that he’d grown so dependent on him in the past that all he sought for was freedom.

And yet. Here he was…

* * *

Much like they owls, they had eagles, and he had a robin with an orange neck. He talked to it and it was always upon his shoulders or his head when she was not out hunting or perching on a random branch.

His robin was pretty loud and liked to sing songs that her fellow robins echoed.

It was a semblance of peace.

The people gave him a necklace made of bones.

Painted his arms with blue and red.

And in return, he cooked food that they all thought was a blessing of the gods that some of them started treating him as if he was a deity, and their elders would always whack their heads knowing he was a traveler.

There were many things he wished he could change, like hoping that each of them took a bath every day, and yet with the lack of complete heat and soft bedding, canals, and the advancement of the civilization from his time, all they could do was travel from one water source to another.

The rain brought an abundance but turned everything muddy, and the children enjoyed running around in the mud and playing with rocks.

Sometimes one child would be too rough, and Harry, despite his best judgement, would try to intervene, just so no one would get hurt to the point of dying.

The elders would shake their head, for they said, “No need shield. We strong.”

And Harry sighed.

If anything, their strength was of their speed and diligence. The people from the past memorized a great many sounds, a great many things, from the common illness, to the common plants they could eat, the right way of planting and so forth. A lot of their processes in Harry’s eyes, for one who gardened for a great many years and toiled under many weathers… a lot could be improved. And yet Harry kept his silence, and only gave suggestion only when he knew it was absolutely needed or asked for.

They would light a big bonfire, and even when they were barely clad and the wind was frosty, to the point that the rain was freezing, they would dance upon it.

Laugh.

Sing.

And Harry sang along of a time that he once knew. He drank the water that was not as clear as he thought it should be but was water still.

“Fahhh. Diyunnn. Siiiier… Hellll Ehna.”

Harry tried to sing along, but he still could not speak as well as them, for even when there were spells that should have automatically translated his voice, he was no wand-maker and the spell was somewhat lost in his memory. At night, he wrote what he could remember, and stored what he recalled, so that in time he would remember it. For he refused to believe the time he spent in the _other world_ was a mere thought in his mind.

He was afraid that he would come to forget all that he knew so he wrote his knowledge down.

And there was the time he spent with Tom…

It was a twist of fate that the horrible memory that he tried to avoid, he now tried to treasure.

And.

Sadly.

It was a beloved memory.

And against the night sky, a star shone brightly and shot a curved line. Shooting against the distance and the din.

And Harry stood up, feeling a sudden cold wrap around him.

**_“I found you.”_ **

It was the sound of the serpent tongue. But where?

To Harry it did not matter.

Without much thought to spare, he drew a line on his wrist. Bled to the ground and took the scroll, uttering the chant, not caring when others around him screamed and was terrified. That they tried to reach for him, but they could not move, or touch the wall.

And just as it was a moment ago, he imagined a place where he should be safe and where he could not be found by someone so vile.

What Harry knew not was the consequence.

The consequence of life.

And a World that has known his light would come to sing of his passing.

Then he was gone.

* * *

And across a thousand worlds, there sits a man, brooding. Gathered around him were his cohort.

Many men and women, dressed in shadow, wearing grotesque masks as he bade them welcome.

After stating his request, “What of the northern territories? Have you assumed control?”

“Yes, but there are rebels.”

“Then convince them, with our numbers it would be easy.”

And despite conquering the world, there was a vast emptiness in it. Despite moving forward, to the direction he once only dreamed of…

“As you wish, my Lord.”

His minions were too afraid of his power to even question it.

An empire that he built for himself, so he could change the world and remake it to something… green eyes.

His hands curled upon himself and he tried not to give in to anger.

What even was that Empire of his when a part of his soul has left him?

Lord Voldemort thought he would never have a use for tears, but that moment when his consort left him, he felt.

Grief.

That it was uncontrollable, and even now there was a burning in his throat, and in his heart.

And betrayal, for he had done so much for him, and yet he was left behind, with no true idea where the horcrux went.

And he called him horcrux for now because if he dared call him by his name, he would risk even bringing back more memories, which made him horribly murderous.

And he took his frustration out on hapless prisoners. Spilling their blood. And asking them questions that made them question their sanity.

Promising them freedom if one of them could at least make him laugh.

For he only laughs now when one makes a grave mistake, or one is stupid enough to bring up the source of his ire.

A thousands scrying mirrors, and yet there is no sign of the boy anywhere in the world.

A hundred sorcerers versed in the ancient arts, and yet none of them wise enough to point him to the right direction.

The clues were there, an impenetrable dome, and the possibility that the boy could be anywhere from the past or the future.

He dreams of him.

The boy who just observes and yet does not speak.

It was so unlike the subservient child who would happily welcome him into his arms, or the minx that would ask for a night in return for a mere hug.

And the thought of how callously he must have treated the boy, who in turn…

“My Lord, is there anything–“

“Crucio.”

He stood up from his throne, and cursed one of the boy’s guardians. A high ranking general of his who failed him. Who failed to protect that which he told everyone to protect.

He already went through each of their minds and yet not one of them had an inkling as to where the boy got the ritual.

“…unless.”

The Dark Lord put a hand on the tip of the cup that rested on the table by the throne. He traced the rim, trailing down to the stem and grabbing it, and began drinking from the red. Wine.

“If it is not with the living, perhaps the answer lies with the dead.”

_People expect things from me…_

_but I’m just… I’d like to think I’m normal._

_I wish someone can see me and believe me._

The boy was simple, with his intrinsically good heart.

And perhaps there were those among the dead who hearkened the call.

The truth was, there were many parallels between him and the boy. And if the prophecy was to be believed, then the boy had a power he knew not.

He should have killed the boy when he had the chance, and perhaps if he finds him, then he will have his head. Make him confess of his crimes, make him feel the pain he felt a thousand times over. Have him beg for forgiveness… break his bones, his mind, and reduce him to a needy thing… make sure his horcrux would never be able to leave him again…?

Lock him up and just ensure he lived a life where he truly had no other use but to stay _alive_.

Or.

Perhaps.

Tell him the truth that lay at the bottom of his glass.

**Author's Note:**

> One day I hope to be able to respond to all the comments. I do enjoy reading them though. It helps <  
> Also, I have not begun my research on the different civilizations and their laws and culture. Some of these might be completely based on my imagination of what it was like to live in the past but they are backed by the many shows/books/stories I take inspiration from.


End file.
